


A Familiar Chill

by prisoner_of_conscience



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Childhood Memories, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Siblings, Dean feels guilty, Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, Flashbacks, Gen, Panic Attacks, Parallels, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Dean Winchester, Repressed Memories, Sam Winchester Takes Care of Dean Winchester, Sick Dean Winchester, Teenchester, Traumatized Dean Winchester, Weechester, cabin fever, dean is cold, dean winchester grows up too fast, haven't eaten in days hungry, hunger, sick, working a case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:42:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27781687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prisoner_of_conscience/pseuds/prisoner_of_conscience
Summary: Certain events trigger a series of memories that Dean thought he'd long-since buried.It's winter in Wisconsin, the boys are working a case, and Dean just can't seem to get warm. Sam knows something's off with his brother, but he figures that Dean's is just getting sick. While working the case, however, Dean's behavior becomes more and more concerning. Told through present day and flashback---Dean is fifteen and Sam is eleven.Includes Dean physical/emotional Dean whump
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, John Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 93





	A Familiar Chill

**Author's Note:**

> While on a hunt, an unexpected event triggers a series of memories that Dean thought he’d long since buried
> 
> A/N: Hello, all! The plot of this story is barely strung together, I am deficiently lacking in monster-plot crafting abilities. The Hodag is a real legend, but I followed none of the "lore."  
> Flashbacks are in italics.  
> Sam is probably not quite old enough to be reading at the level he is in this story but I decided to include it anyway.  
> That’s all! Hope you enjoy! 

  
  


**A Familiar Chill**

Simply put, Wisconsin was not Dean’s favorite state. Truthfully, it didn’t even make the top twenty. It was beautiful, he couldn’t deny that; driving through Interstate Park had the kind of serenity Dean had only experienced a handful of times. The entertainment though? The train museum place or whatever? That only appealed to his desire to drive a railroad spike through his head. (Sam could take that trip alone next time.) Besides, any beauty or charm that Wisconsin had was on a strict environmental clock. July, Dean conceded, could be peaceful. January? He had quite a few four-letter words to describe Wisconsin in January. With any luck--any at all--they would be back on the road and headed home in a few days. The Door County Motel was just a few miles down the road from the lighthouses they were investigating. Two people had already died on their climb to the top; both broke in after closing, and both had died of hypothermia. At least that’s what the medical reports said. Dean was waiting in the car, freezing, while Sam ran into the library, picking up any documents detailing the lighthouses’ histories. Impatient as always, Dean pulled his phone from his pocket with stiff fingers.

“Sam, hurry the hell up. I’m freezing my ass off.”

“I told you to come in. I’m gonna be another minute.”

“I don’t wanna come in. I hate being quiet.”

“And by that you mean you hate following rules?”

“Sam, I’m 34 years old. If a small, frail woman made of dust tells me to be quiet, then she can kindly f--”

“Yeah I get it. Go get a coffee or something.” 

Hanging up with irritation, Dean hurriedly turned the ignition and pulled out of the library parking lot in search of coffee (or something stronger). The  _ ShipLit Bar _ was closed, considering it was only eleven in the morning, but Dean made note of it for later.  _ Shoreline Swiss _ , open and bustling, seemed like a more socially acceptable option. Parking far away from the young, untrustworthy drivers, Dean quickly made his way inside to the heat. The shop was a little too new-age for him, but the menu was standard. A few donuts, muffins, and coffees later, he was back in the car and headed to pick up Sam. All-in-all, the errand took about ten minutes and even though Dean had tried milking the activity for as much time as he could he still had to wait a few minutes for Sam to finish up. Soon enough, however, they were headed back to the motel. The ride back consisted of Sam relaying geographic and historic information that’s relevance was a mystery to Dean. The only fact worth listening to was that there were 11 lighthouses in Door County and the victims had died at different locations. So much for one, simple, haunted lighthouse. 

“Dean--?” Sam attempted to get his brother’s attention but the older man was lost in a fog.

“Dean?! Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying? DEAN?!” 

Dean jolted as he parked at the motel and turned aggressively to Sam.

“What?!” 

“Are you coming or not?” Sam demanded.

“Where?”

“The _ Door County museum,  _ Dean.” 

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” 

Climbing out of the car, Sam developed a smirk marked partly by humor and partly by disgust.

“You have to stop  _ fantasizing _ in the car, dude.”

“I. Was. Not.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

In truth, Dean’s eyes  _ had _ glazed over and his brain went a little foggy, but he was far from having a fun time. There was something kind of just... _ off  _ about this place--the weather, the case. Dean felt a little...well? Honestly?  _ Yucky.  _ It was the best word he could come up with. He blamed it on the insane amount of caffeine coursing through his system. He threw out the rest of his coffee and opted for consuming the small bag of baked goods instead. Trailing behind Sam, he went into the room and started unpacking. 

“Tell me again about these lighthouses?”

Sam was in the bathroom, door closed, but spoke anyway. 

“They were built in the 1800s and the whole county is basically one big historic landmark. They were working lighthouses up until 1979 when newer ones were built and these became just an attraction. They have tours and scavenger hunts and fairs and stuff--it’s a popular recreational site.” Sam emerged from the bathroom, drying his hands. “So the first victim was out on a dare--typical ‘stay the night’ kinda deal. Coroner’s report says he froze to death. But get this--says he died around 11pm. Temperature that night? Crazy warm. Average is about 25 degrees Fahrenheit but that night it was 40. And he wasn’t out there all that long--an hour, maybe. Point is--I don’t think he froze on his own.”

“Did he…  _ Frozone _ ?” Dean let loose a cheeky smile, but Sam wasn’t having it. 

“Same with the other victim.”

“Okay so what? Mr. Freeze is ganking people in the lighthouses if it’s too warm for them to actually freeze to death? That isn’t any more to go on than what we started with, Sammy.” 

Sam had a telling grin and pulled some papers from his bag on the table, handing them to Dean who looked at them blindly. 

“It wasn’t 40 degrees everywhere. Just the lighthouses.”

“So like---ghost cold spots? But...warm spots? Only at the lighthouses? What the hell kinda thing does that?” Dean shuffled through the papers from his spot on the bed and wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion. 

“I think it’s a Hodag.” Sam was hesitant in his assumption, but confident enough to suggest it. 

The fuzziness came over Dean again, filling his head with cotton, and making his limbs feel heavy and cumbersome. He heard that Sam was talking, but couldn’t make out his words--he was zoned out. Almost like being underwater. Dean didn’t feel tired, but it was as if he was about to fall asleep. Sam’s adamant shouting eventually blew the cloud away from his mind and he refocused.

“What is with you today? Did you sleep at all?” Sam was past annoyed, and now a little worried. 

“I think I OD-ed on caffeine. I’m good. Let’s head out to that museum and see if we can’t dig up something more useful, what do you say?” Dean stood and closed the bathroom door behind him, ignoring Sam’s commentary. 

_ Hodag... _ There was something familiar about the name but he couldn’t place it. Splashing water on his face, Dean tried to recenter himself. Much as he hated to admit it, maybe he needed a drink. It had been a while. Maybe this was...withdrawl? He doubted it, but next to the caffeine it was his leading theory.

The car ride was unusually quiet and Sam had asked to drive on account of the fact that Dean seemed jittery. Despite the fact that the heat was on high, Dean was pulling on his jacket--trying to wrap it tighter around him. 

“What about the Hodag? What makes you think it’s that?” Dean hoped that Sam had some clue as to why the thing sounded familiar--maybe Dad hunted one? Maybe Bobby? 

“It’s local to the area and supposedly lives in the lake...I haven’t heard any other hunters coming across one but it kinda fits the profile.” 

“Dad never had anything about it?”

“Not that I can remember. Are you sure you’re okay? You seem pretty out-of-it.” Sam looked over to Dean, beginning to really worry about his brothers’ strange disposition. 

“It’s just freakin’ cold, man. Wanna get this over with.”

“I can finish up myself if you want… maybe you just need a few days off. You’ve been going non-stop you probably just need to sleep. Let me take this one.” 

“No. I’m good. I’m not gonna let you solve the big hodag mystery by yourself.” Dean was indigent and firm, not hesitating in his reply. 

“Dean, I swear I can han--”

“I said no, Sam. Drop it.” Dean bit back sharply and Sam slinked down further into his seat. 

Arriving at the museum after a long uncomfortable silence, the boys, masquerading as Health and Safety officials, questioned the workers. The lighthouses had been locked as usual and both victims had been found with stolen keys on their person. There wasn’t much else that anyone had to offer, so they decided to search the lighthouses for themselves. It took them a little under four hours to do a sweep of all 11 but there were no cold spots, no warm spots, no EMF readings, and absolutely nothing helpful. Exiting the final lighthouse, Sam paused at the foot of the staircase, kicking a discolored stone. 

“Does this one look different to you?” Sam asked, bending down to get a closer look. 

Staring at Sam’s crouched form, Dean was unable to stop the rush of memories accosting him. A wooden cabin--scent of cedar and mud. Heavy boots pulling on his ankles and making him want to sink to the floor.  _ Tap tap tap tapping  _ on the windows, shadows cast on the floor, and Sam--with his hair flopped over his eyes--huddled in the closet, breathing as silently as he could. Everything in him was tight and shaking...the familiar sting of adrenaline radiating from his lower back and flooring throughout his whole body. His stomach dropped and made him feel nauseous, his vision unfocused and ears started ringing; every unpleasant symptom descending on him in the same moment. All the while, his mind flashed between the same few, faded images. The cabin. His boots. Sam cowering in that narrow coat closet…

“DEAN! HEY!” Sam’s deep, adult voice startled Dean’s consciousness and he was suddenly aware of the broad hands forcefully attempting to shake breath back into his lungs. Pulling in a deep gulp of cold, dry air, Dean became fully aware of the present moment. Coughing, he pushed Sam off of him and reminded himself of his surroundings.

“DEAN--you with me?” Sam backed off physically but was still mentally checking in.

“...yeah.” Dean’s voice was weak and thready but he seemed to have regained control of his breathing. 

“What the hell happened?” 

Dean remained silent, his eyes still blinking absently. 

“DEAN!” Sam barked.

“WHAT??” Dean finally snapped back into reality. 

“What the hell just happened?” 

Dean was silent for the moment--the smell of the mud, the decaying plant matter still in his nose. The  _ tap tap tap tapping  _ still echoing in his ears. 

“I don’t---I don’t know. Some kind of…” Dean struggled to categorize the moment. “Some kind of flash? Vision? I have no idea.” 

“Vision?” Sam’s repeated, his voice going up, clearly surprised. 

“I spaced out, I’m fine. I just need some sleep.”

Dean rubbed past Sam’s shoulder as he walked out of the lighthouse and dug his hands aggressively into the pockets of his field jacket. Sniffling and wincing at the cold air filling his lungs once again, Dean didn’t look back at Sam. His mind wouldn’t let go of the lingering images, his senses wouldn’t let go of the impressions, and his body---just as it had been all day---couldn’t get warm. 

( ) ( ) ( ) 

Back at the motel Sam was unusually patient; he didn’t pester or push, nudge or reprimand. He was silent and observant as he watched Dean layer another henley, wait for the sink water to run hot, and eventually concede to curling under the covers of the bed. Sam dared not disrupt the progress and so he sat on his computer researching, pretending his brother didn’t exist. His lack of action, however, didn’t stop his mind from running rampant with anxiety and speculation.  _ What the hell was going on with his brother?  _ Dean was distracted and distorted--disoriented and distressed; and  _ cold.  _ Why so cold? It was winter, sure. And, yes, it was Wisconsin. Still--it was warmer than it could be; daily highs had been around 35 degrees. Besides, whiney as Dean could be he wasn't often bothered by the weather. He was too depressed by  _ regular _ life to have _ seasonal _ depression be impactful. And this “vision?” What was that about? Dean had quite literally had the wind knocked out of him and nothing had even  _ touched  _ his brother. He needed Dean to talk about it but Sam wasn’t holding his breath. Maybe Dean was just getting sick. Maybe the fatigue and fuzziness---the so-called vision and the chills---maybe his brother was simply coming down with something. Sam would delay his panic attack until Dean got some sleep, ate some food, and took some Aspirin. After that, if Dean was  _ still  _ weird….  _ then  _ Sam would start to worry. 

( ) ( ) ( ) 

Dean awoke to a cottonmouth and a heavy pulsing in his head. Opening his eyes, he noticed that the blinds had been closed but light was still peaking through.  _ Still daytime, then.  _ He napped? Dean Winchester had taken a  _ nap _ ? Normally this kind of realization would have bothered him more, but still shivering and trying to contemplate his strange day, it seemed like a relatively unimportant event. Ripping the sheets off of himself, he tried rubbing heat back into his numb limbs as he made his way to the note resting on the small table. 

_ Went out again. Got a theory I’m checking out. Take Aspirin and get something to eat.  _

_ -S _

“Bossy.” Dean mumbled under his breath as he read the last line.

As he finished reading, though, he couldn’t stop the bombardment of flashes that the note had triggered. 

* * *

_ Do not leave the cabin under any circumstances. Don’t trust anyone at the door. Don’t let Sammy out of your sight and NO FIGHTING. I’ll be back in three days. When I come back, I’ll knock three times, wait, and then twice more.  _ _ Stay inside, Dean. I mean it.  _

_ -Dad _

_ “Bossy.” Dean mocked back to the piece of paper.  _

_ He already knew all of this. Why did Dad have to write it down like he needed directions. How many times had they been through this same crap? He was fifteen and had already been on a few hunts himself and he’d stayed home with Sammy more times than he could count. Dean knew the drill--he knew  _ _ all  _ _ the drills. When was Dad gonna trust him to know what to do? Dad didn’t tie Dean’s shoes, didn’t pick out his clothes or make food...so why did he tell him how to take care of himself? How to take care of Sam? Dad needed to back off--it’s not like he was there to see if Dean broke the rules anyway. How would he even know?  _ _...Sam would be a tattletale that’s how... _ _ Dean rolled his eyes, answering his own question. He looked over to his little brother; the younger boy was reading some thin paperback while eating a sleeve of saltine crackers. Kicking Sam’s shoe, Dean provoked him for pure entertainment; Dean was bored.  _

_ “What’re you reading?”  _

_ “Jules Verne.” Sam was quiet--not looking to engage.  _

_ “That’s a bad name for a book.”  _

_ “It’s not the book. It’s the author.” Sam corrected.  _

_ “Well what’s the  _ _ book  _ _ then...the story?”  _

_ “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” _

_ Dean kicked Sam’s shoe another time but only after Sam had settled---an interruption to the few moments he was reading in peace. The younger one glared. Grinning, Dean was pleased that he was being sufficiently annoying.  _

_ “20,000, huh? And to think baseball only gets two. Better be some seriously impressive ocean-life.” _

_ “Not that kind of league, D. e. a. n.” Sam strung out his brother’s name. He was nearly red with rage at being interrupted and poked at.  _

_ “I know,” Dean smirked. “Samantha.”  _

_ With that, Sam snapped. He used the book as his first weapon and hurled it at Dean’s head. Dodging, Dean giggled and Sam reached for the saltines next. Throwing those too, he was unsuccessful in making contact. Dean taunted Sam with quiet noises of enjoyment and the younger one removed his sneaker, holding it as a weapon and going after Dean. Launching himself over the couch for cover, Dean landed solidly on the floor and began laughing. Now this? Roughhousing? This was more Dean’s speed. This was Dean’s kind of entertainment.  _

_ “C’mon Sammy...that the best you got?”  _

_ Answering, Sam’s shoe came flying over the couch and landed square on Dean’s chest.  _

_ “Leave me alone, Dean.” _

_ No, no, no. That sounded like surrender. Dean flung the sneaker back over the couch and heard it hit flesh with a quiet thud. Appearing over him was Sam’s red-hot face, glaring and spitting angry.  _

_ “LEAVE ME ALONE, DEAN. OR I’M GONNA TELL DAD YOU STARTED A FIGHT.”  _

_ Sam stormed away and Dean lost all joy, sitting upright and moving from the floor.  _

_ “That’s not funny, Sammy.” _

_ “I’m not trying to be funny. Leave. Me. Alone.” _

_ Sam picked up his thrown book and stalked to the other side of the small cabin while Dean stood in anxious fear. Please please please don’t tell Dad. Dean didn’t have the energy to deal with his father throwing a fit. He’d be on his best behavior the next two days. He would. It was a promise.  _

* * *

As the memory subsided, Dean was reminded of his present surroundings: the dingy motel room in Wisconsin. Sam’s note still lay on the table, the covers of one bed untouched and the covers of the other messy. While trying to recall the place and time of his memory, Dean stepped over to the finicky thermostat of the room and made sure the heat was on. He felt the warm air blowing from the vents but it did little to thaw the ice inside him. Taking Sam’s advice, Dean rummaged through his dopp kit and pulled out the small bottle of Aspirin and swallowed back two pills. Still disturbed by the vividness of his memories, Dean tried to sort through them.  _ Sneakers, saltines, incessant tapping, Sam hiding in a closet, fighting _ …. All generic memories and yet so potent in their nostalgia. Dean shook his head and tried to move on; he needed to meet up with Sam. 

Pulling the cell from his jeans, Dean listened until the dial tone was interrupted by Sam’s voice. Sam’s voice did eventually come, but it was only his voicemail. 

“I’m awake. Come get me so we can solve the case and blow this joint. CALL ME.” 

Dean hung up and sat on the bed with great irritation. His sedentary position didn’t last long, though and soon he stood to go through his duffle. Pulling a flask from the side compartment, Dean gulped for several seconds. Before he had time to fully screw the cap back on, another wave of memories swamped him. 

* * *

_ Five days. It had been five days since Dad left. Two more days than he’d said and two days worth of supplies they didn’t have. Dean bit his lip staring into the empty cabinets of the small kitchenette and couldn’t help but long for the dry saltines that Sammy had finished off days prior. They hadn’t had much to begin with because Dad had gotten word of his hunt pretty late. Renting the cabin for a week he’d left them that night with whatever stockpiles they had left over from the haunting in Minnesota. Sam’s growth spurt meant that he was hungry all the time; in his defense, he didn’t demand more than he really needed but it still left them short. They’d run out of canned goods yesterday morning and polished off the bread yesterday afternoon. This morning Dean had found a crushed granola bar in the bottom of his bag and told Sam to eat it; Dean lied and said he’d already eaten his. By 8pm they were both really starting to feel hungry but it wasn’t a foreign feeling. Dean prayed that Dad would be back soon--just one more night.  _

_ Waking up the next morning was painful. Sam was still sound asleep but Dean’s stomach cramping had woken him up--his body begging for attention. It was still painfully early--the sun not having yet broken the horizon. Pushing the thin comforter off of himself, Dean sat up on the couch and rubbed his eyes. Groaning, he stood and walked into the kitchen though he knew it to be empty. Separated from the comforter Dean felt a small shiver radiate over his spine but he ignored it easily; his cramping stomach was a much more concerning sensation. Quickly forgoing the cabinets, Dean began looking for food that may have been left behind from the previous tenants. He quietly searched under the sink and pipes, and he climbed the counter to peek into the small cabinet above the loud refrigerator. Jackpot. At the very back, covered in dust, was a small can of Spam--expiration date long since passed. He didn’t care. Of course he didn’t care. About to pull back the tab, Sammy’s mild snoring made him pause. Sam. Sam was gonna wake up eventually and something told Dean that Dad wouldn’t be back in time for dinner. He’d wait to eat. A few more hours. Just until Dad got back. Just one more day.  _

_ Abandoning the singular can, Dean forced himself to walk back to the couch. His heavy boot caught an uneven floorboard, though, and he nearly fell face-first onto the splintering planks. Recovering, Dean went to stomp on the uneven board but was stopped by the sight. Investigating, he bent down and attempted to pry the board upwards. Succeeding easily, Dean found a small collection of dusty bottles. Nearly all of them were full of a dark liquid but their labels had long-since been worn off. Still, he didn’t need a label to tell him it was Whiskey. He’d seen Dad drink enough to know booze when he saw it. Bound to the cabin and on babysitting duty, Dean had no desire to experiment. What fun was he possibly going to have? But he reached for the bottles anyway.  _

_ Dean was freezing, overtired and desperately hungry; like it or not, the drink had calories. It was pathetic and reckless--Dad would be beyond pissed. But the lack of nourishment left him shivering, and the dark sky indicated that day wouldn’t break for hours; he needed to sleep and he needed to be alert. Against his better judgement, Dean opened the smallest bottle and took two short gulps. Enough to warm his belly, and enough to lull him to sleep. In a few hours, when the sun rose, he would get up and feed Sam and no one would be the wiser. Placing the board back, Dean took his small bottle to the couch and shoved it in the crack of the cushions. Sam couldn’t know or else he’d let it slip to Dad and that would  _ _ really  _ _ be the end of Dean. Seeking warmth, he curled back under the covers and heard Sam’s loud breathing coming from down the hall. Closing his eyes, Dean felt a mild rush of calming warmth spread inside him and he fell back asleep with the alcohol providing him at least a fraction of the sustenance he was longing for.  _

* * *

The loud ringing of Dean’s phone was the sound to pull him from his daze. Absently bringing the phone to his ear, he was greeted by Sam’s frantic voice. 

“I called you four times, I was freaking out.” 

“Sorry I--I didn’t hear.” Dean’s voice was dry---a little pitchy.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I think you’re coming down with something. Let me call someone else to come check this out and we’ll just head home.” Sam was more than concerned at Dean’s strange behavior but he kept his voice steady.

“No, I’m good. Just a few crazy dreams. What’dya dig up?” Dean redirected. 

“I went to ask around about the vics--try and find any kind of connection. Turns out that they shopped at the same sporting goods store.”

“Pleeeease tell me this somehow ends with haunted paintball gear.”

“Well I checked out the place-- _ Cavemans’ Cargo-- _ ”

“Wow.” Dean balked at the name.

“Yeah---as bad as it sounds. Anyways, so the store?  _ Covered _ in carvings and pictures and symbols of---”

“Lemme guess...the Hodag.” Dean finished the sentence on Sam’s behalf. 

“Exactly. It’s a local legend that’s been commercialized for tourism. But some of the symbols seemed pretty legit so I’m thinking we’ve got a conjuring gone-wrong, accidental summoning--something like that.”

“Any word on stopping it?”

“No, nothing yet. Swinging by the library again, maybe I’ll get lucky there.”

“If anyone was gonna get lucky at a library, it would be you.” Dean snickered. 

Rather than responding, Sam hung up the phone and Dean’s grin slipped off his face at the loss of his entertainment source. Dean knew it was no coincidence that Sam had ditched him in the room; he was trying to force Dean into taking it easy. For once, Dean didn’t have the energy to fight him. In all honesty, he felt like crap. Maybe Sam was right, maybe he  _ was _ getting sick. It would explain the chills and the fatigue...the mild nausea and his brain’s fogginess. What it didn’t explain was the onslaught of memories that seemed to plague him. If he could place them--tie them to something or somewhere--then maybe he could figure out why the hell they were suddenly making an appearance. Before he’d had time to consider anything too deeply, another scene unraveled in his head. 

* * *

_ “Dean, wake up. DEAN! Wake up!” Sam’s voice was stern--a strange tone for him. Bolting upright, Dean saw the room spin but Sam’s hand anchored him to the couch. _

_ “Dean, I hear something. Outside.”  _

_ Dean tried to focus on his brother’s words but his ears felt like they were underwater and his eyes still hadn’t focused. His entire body was tingling and he felt hot and flushed--his ears burning up. The bottle from earlier was half-empty shoved in the cushions. All day he’d been slowly drinking--desperate for the calories and warmth it provided. Sam had eaten the spam and Dad had yet to make an appearance; Dean’s hunger was quickly turning into starvation and the pain it was causing began to scare him. Ignoring his body, Dean focused enough to process what Sam was saying; he tuned out the sound of heartbeats in his ears long enough to hear what Sam was talking about.  _

_ Tap...tap...tap….taptap _

_ Dean wanted to believe it was nothing--he didn’t have the strength to deal with anything.  _

_ “It’s prob’ably just a branch, S-sammy.” Dean’s words slurred a little, but not enough that Sam would notice.  _

_ “Dean, there’s no wind or rain or anything…” Sam’s voice hiccuped slightly “...and Dad’s not back yet.”  _

_ Dean listened again--attempting to access the logic he knew was inside him buried beneath the heavy blanket that the alcohol had laid over his senses. He stood clumsily and stopped by every window. No brush was remotely close to the glass and yet the faint tapping continued. It was too regular to be accidental and too quiet to be outwardly alarming. The older boy had learned that this was a dangerous combination; it indicated that someone--or something--was stalking them. Dean held his breath as he listened again and realized that the sounds were coming from the roof, not from the walls. Looking upwards caused him to have a headrush and vertigo nearly caused him to fall over. Once again, Sammy’s hand grounded him. _

_ “Dean?” The little brother asked.  _

_ Dean closed his eyes momentarily and then re-focused.  _

_ “S-sammy go to the closet and don’t come out till I s-ssay.”  _

_ Obeying, Sam did what he was told and Dean tried to orient himself enough to find a weapon. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t gonna wait forever. When it made its move, Dean would be ready. He had to be.  _

* * *

Sam returned to the motel to find Dean asleep yet again. Sam frowned at the sight of his brother swaddled in the tan sheets; the comforter on his own bed having been stripped off and wrapped around Dean’s body instead. Sam quietly set the keys on the table and watched Dean’s restless sleep with unease. It had been a long time since Dean was sidelined by anything--and certainly not by something as mundane as a cold.  _ Hmmm...cold.  _ The  homonym resurrected  the question that had been circulating in Sam’s head all day:  _ why was Dean so freezing?  _ Fearing it was the onset of a fever, Sam approached his sleeping brother and quietly called his name. 

“Dean?” Sam kept his hands to himself in fear of startling his brother but Dean only grunted in response. “Dean, hey. Do you have a fever? Did you take something?” 

The older man groaned again and kicked the sheets off of himself and rubbed his eyes. 

“When’dya get back?” Dean mumbled.

“Few minutes ago.” 

“Any updates?” 

Dean kept his head hung in his hands as Sam watched him wearily.

“Yeah...the symbols at the store definitely summoned it so we’ll have to break in. But there needs to be a matching symbol at the lighthouses--a kind of beacon to tell the monster where to go.”

“Lemme throw on a coat and we’ll go.” Dean’s voice was scratchy and Sam wasn’t letting this drag out any longer. 

“Dean, you’re sick. Stay. I can do this.” 

“I’m not sick, Sammy, I’m just--” Dean tried to generate any idea that made sense. 

“You’re what?” Sam taunted him. He knew that Dean had no good defense. Surprising him, Dean proposed an idea that was a little too believable and all too troublesome.

“I think we’ve hunted this thing before.”

Sam looked on in confusion and mild shock. Dean went on to explain, not making direct eye contact. 

“I keep having these...memories. I get these flashes but I can’t remember the whole story. You and me in some cabin somewhere...I don’t know I was like fifteen maybe? I really don’t remember. But I know Dad was away and there was something--something tracking us.”

“You think it’s the same thing? Dean that would have been like what? Twenty years ago or something? Besides, Dad never mentioned a Hodag and I don’t remember anything.”

“Why do you think I’ve been freezing my ass off this whole friggin trip, man? It’s not suspicious that the moment we roll into town to fight the hypothermia monster I start feeling really cold? C’mon, Sam. It’s gotta be.”

Rather than take Dean seriously, Sam honestly believed that his brother was coming up with desperate excuses to avoid the reality that he was coming down with a virus. 

“Dean this thing doesn’t go after specific people, it’s just called to a location. I’ll go break the insignias at the store at the lighthouses and you can just take it easy.” Sam stood to leave, but Dean desperately grabbed his arm.

“No, nono you aren’t leaving here by yourself are you crazy? Dad said to stay put.”

Sam’s face fell despite the fact that Dean seemed oblivious to his misstep. 

“Dean?” Sam was quiet.

“What?!” Dean stood to pace feverishly. 

“You need to sit down.” Sam spoke as if he was keeping a wild animal calm and he tried not alerting Dean to the fact that he was clearly in a dream-like state. Something was wrong. Sam’s brother was far from fully conscious. 

“Just say here, Sammy.” Dean panted. 

“I’m right here. I won’t leave. Dean? You gotta calm down, okay…”

“Just be quiet, Sam. Dad’ll be back soon, I promise.” Dean continued pacing. 

“Dean--” Sam tried again, this time his voice was a little stricter. “Dad’s dead.”

With that, Dean stopped in his tracks and crinkled his face, looking around the room-- surprised to see drywall rather than wood. His mind still clung to the impression of the past. 

* * *

_ Tap tap tap tapping grew louder as the moments passed. With shaky fingers Dean pulled open the zipper of his duffle and dug to the bottom to find a weapon. Pulling out a gun, Dean realized that his double vision was worsening--there was no way he could see well enough to aim. Quickly abandoning the firearm, Dean opted for a small silver blade. This weapon he figured he could manage. Looking over his shoulder he saw Sam crouched down, hair flopped over onto his face, and body tense with fear. Despite the nausea and dizziness drowning him, Dean swallowed thickly and stood in the middle of the cabin; he waited for the inevitable attack of whatever thing had been waiting to make its move. In silence, the two boys waited. And eventually, the tapping subsided. Regrettably, it was replaced by a much louder, piercing screech. From the fireplace emerged a monkey-like creature with long, boney fingers that clattered against the wooden floor. While Dean’s vision was blurry, he approached the figure anyway--knife in hand. The small monster wasted no time in knocking the blade from Dean’s weak grasp and pouncing on the boy. Head smacking on the wooden floor, Dean was momentarily motionless as his body tried desperately to remember how to function.  _

_ Sam’s worried pleas jarred him back to reality and he turned to see the creature attempting to drag Sam away.  _

_ “S-ssammy!”  _

_ Dean struggled to stand but once he had he was able to successfully pry the loose floorboard from the ground. He planned to use the plank as a bat and as he approached Sam, he pulled his arms back to allow for maximum force. Coordination beyond lousy, as Dean swung the wood towards the monster, he realized too late that his aim had been off. As the creature easily dodged the blow, Dean accidentally brought the wood down on Sam’s head, causing the younger boy to lose consciousness.  _

_ It was at this moment that John Winchester burst through the front door of the cabin with a long, bronze dagger in hand. Dean couldn’t keep up with the action but soon enough he was aware that the monster was dead, and Dad was rushing over to Sam’s limp body. Dean began shaking--his body in complete and total shock. He felt blood drain away from his face and adrenaline cease pumping. His skin was soon covered in a thin layer of cold sweat and before he could stop it, he was puking. In his peripheral vision he saw Dad lifting Sam up, inspecting his head. Sam’s eyes fluttered open and he recognized Dad. As Dean continued throwing up, he lost awareness of the details of the events around him. He was only jolted back into the present by his father’s terrifying voice.  _

_ “Dean Winchester. Are. You. Drunk…”  _

_ Dean knew that the entire cabin now had the unmistakable smell of whiskey thanks to his fragile stomach. Throat thick with bile and petrified by fear, all Dean could do was stare at Sammy--Sammy who now had a shallow gash running along his hairline.  _

_ “DEAN!” John screamed.  _

_ Tears pricked in the older boy’s eyes.  _

_ “It wasssn’t--Sam--” _

_ “SAM COULD HAVE DIED. YOU COULD HAVE KILLED HIM.” _

_ “I wasss--” Dean stuttered and slurred; partly because of the alcohol, partly because of the shock, and partly because of his guilt.  _

_ “You better be glad your mother is dead so she doesn’t have to be as disappointed in you as I am.”  _

_ John lifted Sam and carried him out the front door, leaving Dean to gather their things as tears silently fell on his cold, freckled cheeks.  _

* * *

Sam’s hand lay on Dean’s shoulder; a force grounding Dean to the present moment.

Without fully realizing it, Dean had monologued his memories aloud to Sam and at the conclusion, they sat in silence. Sam, as per usual, was the first to break the stillness. 

“Dean--I--”

“Can we just...can we finish the case please?” 

Sam nodded and sat dumbstruck while Dean pulled on his boots and picked up the keys from the table. 

“C’mon, Sammy.” 

( ) ( ) ( ) 

Symbols destroyed, and case closed, Dean was thrilled to finally be leaving frigid, miserable Wisconsin. A part of Dean still wondered why this place had triggered such intense memories, but he soon realized, along with Sam, that it all came back to the cold. The weather must have reminded him of how he felt in that cabin--the malnourished draining his body of heat. While they’d both come to this realization, he and Sam hadn’t spoken another word about what Dean revealed to his brother. And that was exactly how Dean wanted it to stay. Of course, Dean rarely got what he wanted. As Sam approached the car with a large take-out bag in hand, Dean was temporarily distracted; his guard down for just a second too long. 

“Burgers and chili fries and both cherry  _ and  _ apple pie.” Sam smiled as he handed the bag over to his brother.

The story had done more than just disturb Sam--it also infuriated him. How could this have been their childhood?  _ Dean’s childhood.  _ It was beyond wrong, it was beyond unacceptable--it was undeniably neglect. But what could Sam do? Their father was dead and having a rough upbringing hadn’t meant they loved him any less. And Sam did believe, in his heart, that it didn’t mean that John loved them any less either. It was an impossible truth, and yet it was so. 

Sam did nothing but smile as Dean pulled the takeout boxes from the bag with an ear-to-ear grin on his own face. Unable to fully concede to silence on the matter, though, Sam skillfully slipped in his comment. 

“Mom would have been proud, Dean.” 

The older man paused his actions to look at Sam’s wide eyes and swallowed with great consideration. 

“Yeah. Thanks Captain Nemo*” 

Dean gave a side, awkward grin and began the long drive through Interstate Park. Finally on their way back home. 

  
( ) ( ) ( )   
  


* _ Character from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea _


End file.
